Light in the Darkness
by SteampunkStrawberry
Summary: After four years of misery with his condition, and his past, the Burned Man patches up a bloodied stranger that stumbles into Angel Cave at the eve of war. After he's long given up on it, the courier is able to make him feel... comfortable. (Story's on hold for now, but guaranteed to continue later.)
1. Saved by the Nightmares

She stumbled into Angel Cave, leaving the tribal boy to catch up, and brushed aside the stern women that resided inside, who'd begun to badger her in a language she could hardly understand.

At the higher place of the cave, she raises her weathered pistol at the man in bandages, and it shakes violently in her hand. She doesn't even clutch the bullet wound on her side. Adrenaline from fear makes it numb the shock, and she lets it leak, staining her emerald pre-war dress. She just stands there, dress-matching eyes wide with disbelief, panting at the burning in her chest, while this man at his table inspects a mound of pistols. Under the Salt Lake City Police Department SWAT vest he was clad in, wrappings went on forever into his rolled up sleeves, stitched with decorative, yet simple tribal patterns. They only stop at his darkened fingertips, and of his face, only his eyes and inner eyebrows are able to be seen.

He repeats an action with each firearm, pulling the slide back and ejecting the clip, examining the extractor, flipping the gun to look down the rifled barrel, and shoving the clip back inside. He places them neatly on the other side of the table, and takes another. She can't even tell if he knew she was there, with his examining unceasing. Then there it is. The pause he takes, and the flick of his gaze over to her. Now she has his attention. But just as soon and it comes, it goes. His pale blue eyes return to the .45 in his hands, and he resumes by ejecting it's clip.

The ghost stories the courier's heard from Jed around the campfire that kept her up at night, in their physical form sits before her. The horrifying things he'd done manifests such a hate for the man several feet away from her, that her decision had already been made before her arrival.

From afar the _click _of her 5.56's hammer being cocked hits his ears, and he isn't in the least surprise to find it aiming right at him when he looks back at her. With an exhale, he places the Colt neatly on the table, and rises from the stacked cinderblocks he sat upon. He steps closer and closer to the courier, gradually closing the gap between them.

Her breath hitches at he subtle resistance of his bandaged forehead coming into contact with the end of her barrel, his intense stare unhindered, never blinking. Tension on the trigger grows as she squeezes harder in her grip. In her periphery, she can make out the man lifting his arms, slowly, and calmly, his charred, calloused fingers rest against the sides of her pistol's barrel. The trigger soon gives way, and the small _click _that it expels decieves the courier. Her pupils grow wide, seeing that the man in bandages had not blinked, had not flinched, had not reacted at all. His piercing glare just continues to chill her to the core.

"You're not the first to have tried." Is all he says, his voice grave, and dark.

That's when she stops breathing. She's visibly still, save for the trembling in her hand the heavy pistol had caused. By now she isn't even looking at him, but through him, passed him like the stare of death in a defeated foe. The unyielding tone of the Burned Man's dark, heavy words had knocked the breath right out of her lungs, an brought on an adrenaline in the courier she simply could not take, and her vision begins to blur, making the man in front of her a pale, fuzzy figure. The arm holding up her pistol is being weighed down by a growing weakness, and eventually, even her legs give way. There, she collapses onto the cavern floor of Angel Cave, with her vision fading to black. The padding sound of bare feet approaching soon follows, with the panicked voice of the young tribal man she'd met earlier, she struggles to hear. The flustered conversation between the two men above soon becomes distant echoes to the now half-conscious courier as her eyes slowly shut. Tense hands pulled her up, and that's all she can remember, before she falls limp into their arms.

She slumbers in peace now, in the lower part of Angel Cave, on a bed of Bighorner furs. She's wrapped in one of his long-sleeve button up shirts, and wears the short blue shorts she'd had on, over clean bandages wrapped around her abdomen and thigh. She sleeps without a sound, but the look of pain on her face lingers, her brows furrowed, her lips grimacing. Her short dark locks are soaked with with the sweat of the ordeal, and she lays there, curled from pain, in a ball. Joshua Graham sits on the floor of the cavern, against the cinder blocks by the fire, facing her, watching her sleep. Exhaustion relaxes his form, and he takes a deep sigh of relief watching the outline of her form ascend and descend, as her breathing had returned to normal. He's exhausted from fixing her up, from holding her down to keep her from thrashing around, failing to calm her cries of agonized pain as he dug the bullets and what shrapnal he could out of her wounds. It disturbed the spectating tribals. All the other New Canaanite ever taught him would've had to come into play to save her. She needed to help them, whether she wanted to accept it or not. He's just glad that it is over, and that she's fine. In his lap, beneath his bloody, bandaged hands, is the courier's blood soaked dress. He lifts the hardened cloth with his sticky fingertips, looking forward to seeing it being cleaned up, and the bullet holes being sewn, though he wonders if he's made the right choice.


	2. Persistence

**AN:**_ Many apologies for the (I would think) late update. I'd began to focus more on a Fallout 3 story I'm working on, involving The Pitt. Rest assured, this story is not over. Just less focused on. Nonetheless, enjoy._

* * *

Joshua Graham holds in his hand a small clay cup, crudely formed by the tribesman that reside in the Eastern Virgin, yet still adorn with the Dead Horse's intricate tribal designs. He pours in it a dark liquid that billows little swirls of steam, from a pot that'd been heating over the campfire outside. He then makes his way to the cave nearby with it in hand, and upon walking inside the darker environment, confusion draws his brows together. The bed that was reserved for the recovering women was vacant, and after twirling around, he finds no sign of her. No sound except for the crackling embers of the dying fire. For three days that women was out, and her feeble state couldn't possible allow her to flee. It puzzles Joshua that she could be up and about in such a small amount of time. Looking at her bedside again for confirmation, he finds that something else is missing. Something Joshua made sure to keep out of the courier's reach after their initial meeting, but unfortunately he failed. A troubled sigh flows through his bandages, and he dreads what is to come.

The sound of bare footsteps, rapidly approaching hits his ears, and before he can turn around, a body leaps onto his back. His hands fly to the arms at his neck as he staggers, the clay cup shattering to the ground, but the least of his worries. He knows it is the courier, with that device on her arm, and the switchblade from her bedside pressed against his neck. It's thin blade is constantly brushing his neck in his struggle, severing the bandages as he makes an effort to knock her off, and pry her arms from around him. The sudden, stinging pain at his throat forces a hand away, and from the inside of his belt, he slips out a combat knife, and jabs the women's leg in the hopes she will release him. She cries out in pain, releasing her arms when he pries against them, but in a feeble attempt to cut his throat, her blade manages to trail over his face, slicing the bandages across his cheek, and they flay open and down his wrinkled face. The women hits the ground behind him as he puts a hand over the cut bandages to contain them, and he turns back to the women with a grim scowl.

The women's eyes are wide like before, her mouth ajar at the burned man's partly exposed face. She's taken back by how intact his face appears to be; he was burned... yes, but hardly disfigured. It was far from the charred, melting face of the courier's nightmares. She could see stubble that struggled to grow, shaven to avoid more discomfort she surmises. The miled wrinkles in his face only slightly distorted his features; his deathly glare was easy to see.

"God damn you." He seethes, and her expression turns more fearful than it was before, and she only holds the blade out in front of her as she trembles, pointing it toward Joshua. He approaches and kicks it from her hand, and snatches a fist full of her hair, and forces her face to the dirt. He plants a knee in her back to pin her down.

"I save you, and do this?" The grip in her hair tightens as he shoves her face harder into the gritty cavern floor. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She begins to squirm underneath him, clawing at his balled fist, hoping it will free her, and she strains to turn her head.

"Don't think I don't know who you are."

The burned man was furious.

"_Do_ you know who I am? Sure you've heard the stories, but have you seen the truth? I've prayed to God that saving you would give me a chance!"

With the remaining air in her lungs, she yells through dirt and grit.

"Let me go!"

"Why? So you can try slitting my throat again?" He spits. Though the courier could not see him, she can hear the words through clenched teeth. "Or are you planning to flee now? Are you afraid?" He throws the questions at her condescendingly. She struggles to breathe, and grimaces at the grit in her mouth.

"I've always been afraid of you." And at that, there's no reply. The fingers in her hair loosen their grip, and are soon pulled gently from her messied, tangled locks.

"I..." The knee digging into her back is lifted, to which the courier sits up hastily the first chance she gets, and kicks away from the man, a hand on her bleeding leg, her eyes glossy. "I'm sorry. I..." Caught off guard by the courier's confession he cannot find the words to reply to her immediantly, and he backs away.

"Even if you wanted to leave," he tells her after a tense moment of thought. "You couldn't. Not without a map. If you're willing to help us however," He adds doubtfully. "One of our missionaries, Daniel, can help you. You've caught us at an... Inconvenient time, outsider. You've seen how dangerous the White Legs are." The courier doesn't say a word. The glossiness in her eyes overflow, cleaning a streak across her dirty cheek. A twinge of guilt strikes the burned man right in the gut.

"Don't cry." He tells her with regret, as his eyes wander to the blood leaking through her fingers. "Your body can't afford it; you're too dehydrated." She forces an inhale through her tears, but her stare is unceasing.

"We need your help. It's why I saved you." He steps closer to her.

"I hope we can reach an understanding." He says, reaching out, and offering her his hand.


End file.
